


Don't Forget to Read the Postscript

by tantarted (tanyart)



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Post-War, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tantarted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What BLU team did after the war, the letters they sent—or didn't send—and where they are now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ps; this is for all those concerned

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as a surprise Thanksgiving fic in 2009 before the Soldier vs. Demoman update, and while this is mostly a gen story, there's a bit of a Spy/Sniper storyline going on as well.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta for being absolutely marvelous throughout the whole thing!

After the war is over, Soldier goes back home for a couple of months. During that time, he fusses around his tiny, rural home, often pulling out sheets of paper and the leaving them on his desk over a packet of unused envelopes. He’s not afraid to admit that he has been thinking about writing to the men he used to work with during that BLU commission he took. Check how they’re doing, what they’re up to, things like that. He has never gotten the chance to _really_ know them, being so busy with fighting and thinking of battle strategies. Soldier knows that he probably wasn’t the most well-liked on the team, what with his strict work ethnic and relentless obsession with formal protocol, but he figures he can make amends now that the fighting is over.

The problem, of course, is that he has no idea how to reach them. Company policy had been strict about their private lives, and Soldier never breaks a rule. He remembers that one time he caught Scout talking about his family to Pyro, or how Engineer would wistfully recall his ranch back home over dinner. Soldier would always be quick to shut them up for their own good, no matter how much they glared at him.

Yeah, the maggots didn’t like him much at all.

Eventually, the papers on his desk start to collect dust, but Solder leaves them there. He’ll get to them.

But he ends up taking up another commission, fights in another war, and meets more people he’ll never write to. The desk becomes crowded, and he’ll need room to write more mercenary applications, so he puts it away and eventually forgets all about it.

* * *

  
Pyro doesn’t go back home. He wanders around for a bit, using the money he has earned working with BLU. It’s an incredible sum, and could last him for a long time if he spends it in moderation, which he does. The only time he really dips into his savings is to move to Boston. He does not plan for it to happen, all he wanted to do was to visit Scout. They had exchanged addresses a month before they were decommissioned, so Pyro figures that Scout would not mind. He’s feeling a little sad without him besides. It’s rare to make a good friend that has stuck through a most of a war with you.

It’ll be a quick visit, nothing else.

Pyro makes sure he brings flowers.

* * *

  
Scout’s body never makes it back to his hometown—too many pieces—but he has a modest marker towards the edge of a crowded cemetery. It area itself is ugly; weeds flourish and grow over plaques and tombstones, making it almost impossible to read. But Scout’s grave is new. The dirt hasn’t even settled over the small, stone cross.

And there are flowers by his grave, everyday.

* * *

  
The funny thing about Demoman is that he’s more sober when he’s drunk, and more drunk when he’s sober. He, of course, spends his massive paycheck on whiskey and vodka, and even buys drinks at least once a week for the other boys at the pub. He gets to be well-liked and popular, something that he has never gotten quite used to before donning the BLU uniform. Being a self-inflicted orphan tends to make a person bitter after all, but living and fighting along with eight other men for so long will do wonders for a lonely person. The thought causes him pause in his buzzed haze. He has a lot to thank for now, doesn’t he?

“An’ drinks on me tonight again, boyos!”

The whole pub erupts with cheers. Demoman pays the happy bartender but waves off the offered drink.

“What? Not havin’ one?” the keeper asks anxiously, and not the kind of anxious of losing a sale, but a genuinely worried question.

Demoman snorts and shakes his head dismissively, “Do y’have a pen?”

The keeper eventually finds one and tells Demoman to keep it. For the rest of the night, he doesn’t drink and. after an hour, he tries writing letters while completely sober.

* * *

  
Engineer’s ranch is small, but it has a pasture big enough for his two cows, a horse, and five chickens. He also has a newly built barn, but that’s filled with a mess of machinery he’d rather not lose the animals in. His wife is forever teasing him about how much time he spends in there, but she does so with a hearty laugh and a kiss to his forehead. Engineer would always grin, whether or not he wants to, and pats her round, swelling belly. A little girl, he hopes.

“Lost track of time again?” she laughs, holding a plate towards him one late afternoon, “And for goodness sakes, wipe your hands before you eat, dear.”

Engineer glances at an elaborate clock he made himself. It reads a quarter past three and it suddenly occurs to him how hungry he is. He takes the plate gratefully, thanking his wife, and chuckles when he sees a perfectly cut triangular sandwich.

* * *

  
In Russia, Heavy takes it easy. He is able to buy a decent house, stash Sasha away in the attic (though he can’t help but take her out for some fresh air sometimes), and live comfortably near the edge of a thriving town, well away from the high tension of bubbling politics. He’s had enough of that for now.

Beyond that, well, Heavy has no wife or children, no pets to take care of, even if he secretly wants a husky dog. He has a friend though—friend who refuses to allow a dog in their own home—but still a friend nonetheless.

The front door opens, sending in cold air and snow. Heavy turns, laughing to find an unrecognizable lump of coats and scarves standing in his hallway.

Medic shuts the door irritably, sneezes once, and sheds his coat before waving a damp envelope in his hand.

“We have a letter,” he announces.

* * *

  
Even if he wants to, Medic can’t go back to Germany. It’s too much of a hassle, trying to get in and out. The only place he would really want to go back to is Stuttgart anyway, but he has heard that his city has been more or less turned into an American base site. Still, it isn’t that he has anything against the Americans, but he’d rather not get involved. Medic’s record isn’t exactly clean.

So, he ends up following Heavy to Russia, and unlike Stuttgart, it’s _always_ cold there. Medic can handle cold weather fine enough, the winters back in Germany were nearly the same as Russia’s, but the weather back home had been broken up by summers. Russia is winter _all the time_. He can’t believe he’s admitting this, even to himself, but he sort of misses the warm temperatures of 2fort, or even Dustbowl.

He starts even missing it more when he has to plow his way through to the post to get mail, but upon seeing a distinctively scrawled ‘Demoman’ on one of his letters, the snow becomes a little less cumbersome. Medic gets back into their house in record time.

“What does it say?” Heavy asks from his couch. He doesn’t stand up, but there’s no mistaking the curiosity in his voice.

Carefully tearing the letter open, Medic pulls out a napkin with smudges of ink on it. He looks inside the envelope and even goes so far as to shake it to see if anything else falls out. Sighing, he carefully unfolds the napkin and tries to read the letter.

“I think he was drunk when he wrote this,” Medic says, “Drunk, but very thoughtful.”

“Demoman is alvays drunk,” Heavy points out.

“Yes, but not always so thoughtful,” Medic squints, making out the word ‘thank you’ in several places. When he’s through, he hands it over to Heavy, who takes it with an amused look. Pretty soon, the Russian is laughing.

“He is a funny man,” he says, “I cannot understand a word he is saying.”

Medic scowls, but already has a pen in his hand. “Well, I suppose we will still have to write him back anyhow.”

* * *

  
Spy doesn’t leave BLU Corporation. In fact, he receives a promotion. He’s still a spy, of course, but not the sort of grunt-work spy that would get shot at on a regular basis. No, now he gets to sit at meetings, look intimidating, and boss people around. Stabbing and actual killing only happens when things go horribly wrong, and those types of situations are never frequent. Spy thinks it’s almost boring, even with all the international traveling he’s been doing.

His superiors though—they get a kick out of his quirks; he absolutely refuses to go to America, Germany, Russia, Scotland, or Australia. It’s a real shame, they say, because Spy could be really useful in those parts. He speaks all the languages there, so why bother having to go back to study new ones?

Fortunately, they like him well enough to send him to other places like Egypt, Spain, and Korea. Spy has always been good with adjusting to different areas, so he only makes himself look better when he comes back from Italy, arm in arm with the wife of some unimportant major and speaking rapid-fire Italian.

And sometimes, but not often, he goes home to Paris in his little apartment (not the bungalow or townhouse) and buries himself in work and the latest gossip. Tonight, he is flipping through old files—a level of clearance that came with his promotion—and jotting down names and addresses in a little black notebook.

He murmurs each of the names, smiling wryly. None of them seem to fit the unexpressive mug shots of each person. It’s... odd. When he gets to Scout’s file, he frowns but allows himself a moment of silence, and continues reading through the other folders.

He leaves Sniper’s untouched.

* * *

  
It was a very stupid idea from the start, but Sniper hasn’t got anything better to do, not since his parents found out that he was never in medical school to begin with. Even though he has just as much money as a doctor would have, his father still insists that he put down the rifle and choose an occupation that would make a less embarrassing dinner topic during Christmas with the relatives.

Sniper ignores his father and goes to France instead.

Mind, he’s not planning on staying there. It’ll be for a week or two, just to see how the country is. He’s heard a lot of stories. Plus, he gets to by boat and stop by Italy first, then he’ll make his way to Paris.

Sniper says Paris because that’s where to Eiffel Tower is—being a beautiful place to snipe (not that he’s planning on it), or enjoy the view—and that’s pretty much all he knows about France, aside from a few obscure hints a certain someone has dropped during his time in BLU, of course. Sniper knows that chances of them meeting randomly are near impossible but, for once, he would like to find out what that damn French bastard was talking about and see if France is really as great as the stories were.

And, after two weeks, Sniper finds out that it’s not.

 


	2. pps; Wish You Were Here

Soldier’s mailbox becomes full with letters. He would check them if he could, but he’s never home. If he were there, he would dutifully collect his mail, throwing all the useless ones into the trash, reading his confirmation letters, and keeping the one, personal letter that surprises him. The letter is so old, there would be dust all over it, making his eyes water, though he won’t be able to account for the loud sniffles he gives.

But then again, Soldier isn’t home. He won’t be checking his mailbox, not for a long time. He’s too busy with mercenary work.

His latest commission sends him to Stuttgart, Germany.

* * *

 

  
There is a woman who visits Scout’s grave. Whenever he sees her, Pyro would duck behind a tree or that crumbling statue of an angel. If he can, he’ll sneak out of the cemetery before he can be spotted. It’s not as if Pyro doesn’t want to meet her—_he does_—but he hates to think of the conversation that they might have, how awful and awkward it’ll be.

Pyro knows who she is. She has Scout’s eyes, the same nose, and even a little bit of that cocky stance Pyro remembers so well from Scout. The resemblance is uncanny. Though it’s actually more of Scout having some of _her_ features, not the other way around.

What’s worse, sometimes the woman will come with a group of younger men, all with an aspect of Scout that makes Pyro stare if he isn’t being careful. He starts giving them names in his head; there’s Buff-Scout, Beard-Scout, Short-Scout, Really-Fat Scout, Scout-With-Glasses, Girly-Scout, and Tall-Scout. It’s morbidly funny to Pyro, makes him want to laugh as much as cry.

And then there’s Scout’s mom. If only _she_ wasn’t there, then Pyro would have the nerve to talk to Scout’s brothers—say that he’s a friend, and maybe they could be friends too.

But today he stays behind the broken stone angel and watches them regretfully until they leave.

 

* * *

  
Sometimes there will be two bouquets of flowers on Scout’s grave. It’s funny. Scout was never really into flowers. They’re pretty and all, but as Scout would say, _he ain’t no hippie_.

They’ll figure it out eventually.

 

* * *

  
Three of the ol’ BLUs replies back. Well, four, if he counts Medic and Heavy as separate. All in all, it’s four more than he expects, considering that he only wrote to half the team: Sniper, Engineer, Heavy, and Pyro. Scout too, but Demoman doesn’t expect a reply from the lad, may he rest in peace, or his poor mum.

The first letter comes immediately after Demoman sends the original letters. Aside from being an impossibly quick reply, it’s from Spy, which surprises him. He never sent a letter to Spy, since Spy had never given his address to anyone, not even to Sniper, as Demoman recalls.

He opens the letter, finding nothing more than polite pleasantries and a casual job offer with BLU. It tells him two things — that Spy is still with the company, and that they’re still keeping tabs on him. A warning from a friend. Demoman tucks the letter away, but doesn’t write back. Spy probably wouldn’t appreciate it.

Medic’s and Heavy’s letters come in one envelope. He nearly chokes on his bottle of scrumpy when the postman comes knocking on his door for the second time that week. Demoman had no idea that they were sharing a house now, and good on them! Those two were inseparable during the war. It makes sense that they'd stick together.

“Kind of early for that, innit?” asks the postman, pointing to the bottle with one hand while the other gives Demoman the letter.

“Nah,” Demoman grins. “Now off ye go.” No one’s going to put a damper on his spirits today, literally and figuratively.

When the postman leaves, Demoman opens the envelope, pulling two sets of letters. One is frightfully short, from Medic.

_Next time do not write while drunk, dummkopf. --Medic _

Demoman frowns, confused — but Heavy’s letter clears up most of the details. It’s written neatly, though the letters slant in odd angles, a lot of words are crossed out, and Medic has added footnotes at the bottom of the latter, clarifying, as if indignantly, some of the stories Heavy has written.

It’s an entertaining letter, and Demoman could be content with just that. He writes back immediately (while drunk, just to piss Medic off). For some reason, it turns out better than the first one he wrote. It’s written on actual paper this time around.

A few weeks later, Demoman receives Engineer’s letter. He puzzles over the contents, finding Engineer’s handwriting messier than usual, his sentences less eloquent and full of spelling mistakes. Lots of smudges and capitalizations and exclamation marks— so unlike the quiet and contemplative Engineer he's used to.

But Demoman doesn’t care. The first thing he writes back is _congratulations on the new laddie! _

 

* * *

  
Engineer can’t figure out what to write to Demoman, so he just starts rambling about his ranch, his machines. Seeing that it only takes a small paragraph, Engineer decides that it's safe enough to write about his wife and how they’re expecting. It turns out to be a decent letter, moderately sized, not too long or too short.

“It’s a bit on the boring side,” his wife admits, reading it over. She’s an English teacher, so Engineer feels confident that his letter will at least be grammatically correct.

“Well, we hardly ever talked about anything outside of the war,” Engineer says, a little defensively, “It’s a little awkward to start spoutin’ my life’s story.”

His wife hands him back the piece of paper, “He isn’t asking for your life’s story, just how you’re doing.”

“I said all that already,” Engineer reminds her, rubbing the back of his head as he glares uselessly at the letter.

“Yes, but reading it was as dull as watching paint dry. You usually get so excited talking about your machines — oh, _hell_!”

Engineer hardly ever hears his wife curse, even as pregnant as she is. He cringes at the sound. “All right, all right, I’ll rewrite it!” he exclaims, hurt and shocked at her sudden anger.

“No, no,” his wife says, red in the face, “It’s just — I think my water… broke.”

Engineer glances down. He’s been preparing for this moment, reading up on medical textbooks and such, but right now he’s frozen on the spot. After a moment, he eventually says, “Oh.”

“Haha,” his wife jokes a little frantically while Engineer gently ushers her out to the truck, preparing for a trip to the hospital. “Guess you’ll have to rewrite that letter anyhow.”

Engineer cracks a grin, “I sure will, and this time it won't be dull enough to make your water break from boredom."

 

* * *

  
Every so often, Heavy takes Sasha out for cleaning. The gun is perfectly harmless without the bullets, at least unless someone tried to wield it like a club — and the only person capable of that is Heavy himself. He really wants to hang her up over the fireplace, but Medic argues that it’s tacky and bound to scare off any visitors. Heavy doesn’t say they don't get enough visitors for that to matter anyway.

Carrying Sasha into the living room, Heavy rifles through the shelves, looking for the polish and cloth. He finds the cloth, but the bottle is missing from its usual spot. Thinking that Medic probably mistook it for one of his own medical tools, Heavy makes his way to Medic’s room. The doctor isn’t there, having gone to town on a house-call.

Sure enough, the bottle is sitting on Medic’s unusually messy desk. Heavy reaches for it and curses when his large fingers knock it over, spilling oil all over Medic’s papers. He quickly rights it, taking the cloth and dabbing the papers uselessly. Oil won’t do the papers any harm. At least they’re waterproof now. He’ll have to apologize to Medic later, but as he picks up the bottle again, he notices the oil-stained letter for the first time.

It’s from Spy. And it’s addressed to him.

Bemused, Heavy reads over the letter, finding nothing so secretive about it, not enough reason for Medic to hide it from him. Now curious, he looks at the other papers, finding an unfinished letter—Medic’s reply to Spy.

“Ah,” Heavy says, frowning. He glances away and ambles out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

 

* * *

  
Medic enters the house with a bundle of potatoes under one arm and a bag of groceries in the other. They are forever running out of food and so he has to make regular trips down to the town's marketplace. Normally Medic would find it bothersome and tedious, but he’s recently taken a liking to cooking and experimenting with different ingredients in lieu of experimenting on… other subjects. He fancies himself a good cook now, though he suspects that Heavy never complains because food is all the same to the large Russian.

He walks down the hallway, seeing Heavy polish Sasha in the other room. The large man welcomes him home and Medic nods, going into the kitchen to put the food away. After he’s done, he heads to his room to change into a warmer robe, but stops when he sees his desk.

He can guess what happened, but that doesn’t stop him from rushing back into the living room, cursing quietly in German.

“You weren’t supposed to know yet,” Medic explains.

Heavy inspects Sasha before looking up. “It is not my business if you want to go back to BLU.”

Medic wishes the larger man were angrier. It would make him feel less guilty. “I do not want to go back to BLU, I want to go _home_." And he realizes a little too late that Russia has been more of a home than Germany. The BLU base too. Medic corrects himself, "I need to go back to Stuttgart, at least for a little while.”

Heavy nods, and damn him for being so understanding, “And Spy knows how to return you to Germany.”

“Yes, he can get me the appropriate papers, but it is only possible if I take another commission for BLU,” Medic says wearily, “It is only a short one.”

“Shorter the commission, more dangerous it is,” Heavy comments. He gives Medic an even look. “I do not like this. BLU is—” he says a Russian word that Medic can't translate, "—place. A _deceitful_ company."

Sighing, Medic rubs his temples with one hand. "I know that."

"Then you know that they will try to keep you," Heavy continues, matter-of-factly, "Like they did with us last time."

There's no way to deny it, so Medic does not bother trying to justify going back to BLU. He only shrugs his shoulders, which finally rouses Heavy's voice to rise with anger.

"It is too dangerous for you! You know what the Americans will do if they catch you."

"I will have the papers—" Medic begins, exasperated.

"Da, forgeries," Heavy interrupts and adds spitefully, "And from Spy! How can you trust such a person?" He immediately shuts his mouth, as if regretting what he had said.

Whether or not Heavy was unfairly lashing out, Medic gives an honest answer, “He is the most ill-fitting spy I have ever known; so yes, I trust him.”

Heavy mulls the words in his head, and raises a brow, “And you say he is the worst spy?”

“I never said that. Where skill is concerned, he is quite good. But I get the feeling that deep down, he’d rather not be a spy anymore.”

 

* * *

  
Because it is winter, the coffee shop Spy usually frequents is crowded with people seeking warmth and company. He ends up sitting outside — a cup of café noisette is not to be missed once he sets his mind on it — and the tiramisu on display clinches the deal. Besides, he has a meeting in half an hour with that conniving bastard Saxton Hale, inside the Cathedrale Notre-Dame. The meeting has the potential to get ugly, but Spy’s willing to face it after a slice of this café's cake.

While Spy is finishing the last of his drink, another man makes his way onto the patio. He takes a table near the edge, the one furthest away from the café, and sticks his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket, staring aimlessly at the passing crowd in the street. Without entirely noticing it, Spy slips into a detached state, something he has developed and almost perfected during the war, and observes the man before him.

The way _he_ sits absolutely still, his slightly mulish gaze, and how he slouches in his chair, and that matted dark hair — Spy finds it all unsettlingly familiar. He knows he should be angry. Shocked, even. But all he feels is a dim, hopeful flutter of happiness. It’s embarrassing.

“Oh, what are you doing here?” he mutters under his breath, quickly and quietly standing up. Though, he reminds himself hastily, it’s not like Sniper would recognize him. Spy has never shown his face to the man, and he isn’t wearing a mask now. Damn. He hasn’t got time for this. Spy checks his watch, silently cursing. He can’t afford to miss the meeting, but he doesn’t want to miss Sniper either. And he can’t very well do both. He knows that the moment he starts talking to Sniper, he’ll forget everything else.

Fine. He’ll just have to be someone else for now. Someone that is _not_ Spy.

He slips off his coat and gloves, taking out the small note pad he carries around with him. Not exactly the barista uniform, but the collared shirt and black trousers are close enough. He briskly walks up to Sniper with a cheery smile.

“Que désirez-vous?” Spy asks, holding up the notepad and making his voice sound a tad more nasal. If he can’t get to Sniper now, he’ll have to make Sniper wait for him.

To his surprise, Sniper responds in halting but passable French, “Café Americain, s'il vous plait.”

“Ah, English,” Spy says distractedly, trying to avoiding looking into Sniper’s eyes. Oh, god, he can barely concentrate. “Café décaféiné, yes?”

“Non,” Sniper replies.

It throws Spy off, almost making him drop his pen. “Quoi? Are you sure? Not decaf?”

“Er… yes? Just regular coffee is fine.”

Frowning, Spy almost continues to argue with Sniper — _no, you always have decaf_ — but shuts his mouth just in time. He pretends to jot down the order. “Cake?”

Sniper shrugs, seemingly out of sorts. He goes back to staring across the street, mumbling, “Sure. Why not.”

Ignoring the sudden urge to reach out and place a hand the man’s shoulder, Spy smiles dutifully, “Cake is still being made, it will take some time if you do not mind waiting.”

Even though he doesn’t turn around, there’s a little spark in Sniper’s voice, as if he is telling a joke, and he replies, “I don’t mind waiting.”

Spy’s forced smile disappears. He hopes so.

 

* * *

  
It’s the last two days of Sniper’s trip to France. He can’t say that he didn’t enjoy it, and he admits that his expectations may have been too high. The coffee’s real good, though. He didn’t expect that.

Though he wasn’t hungry or particularly thirsty at the time, Sniper allows the waiter to take his order. The only reason he ends up getting anything at all is that the guy was already outside, probably on break or something. Sniper thinks he might have been a little impolite, but maybe the waiter is used to rude foreign customers. Sniper remembers how the waiter’s shoulders had been tense, his expression a little too set, and was strangely insistent about the decaf coffee, like he was expecting it.

Sniper thinks it’s weird, but it reminds him of another French person who would always know exactly what Sniper wanted, even before Sniper knew it himself.

Blinking, he turns around — he wants decaf after all — but the waiter is already gone. He drums his fingers irritably on the table once, not getting up, and comes to a sudden conclusion about France.

"I hate it."

 


	3. ppps; With Sincere Condolences

Even though there’s an American base already stationed in Stuttgart, there is a need for mercenaries like Soldier — mercenaries who can do things that the American government can’t. So, while the Army helps out with the reconstruction of Germany, it is Soldier’s duty to ensure the requisition of several important buildings and houses. Mostly by force, _and_ preferably by force. It's all because America can’t be blamed for looting but Soldier _can_, and gladly will if it helps his country in the end.

Today, Soldier visits his sixth house, one that could easily pass for a manor. Half the roof has been gone for months, destroyed by a bomb, but he finds that the house inside is still kept in good order by an old housekeeper. It may smell a bit weird and there might be an annoying dog howling outside, but none of that will matter once Soldier is through.

“Out!” the skinny crone barks, much like the dog, “No coming in!”

“Ma’am, you're going to have to leave the house,” Soldier says gruffly for the third time. He’s already pacing down the front hallway, rifle in hand. Hopefully he won’t have to shoot the lady, no matter how loud and irritating her broken English is. He doesn’t know why the house is important, but if it’s on the list, then Soldier has to take it.

He hears a click right next to him, the unmistakable sound of a gun. Instinctively backing against the wall, it surprises him to see the old lady pointing a revolver at his chest, hands shaking. His rifle comes up and points back at her. Neither one of their fingers are on the trigger. Soldier guesses it’s because the old lady has never shot anyone -- odd, in this day and age.

But the reason why _he_ hadn’t shot her it yet is the portrait he happens to see behind her. A young man stands unsmiling in it; he has dark hair, glasses, and a familiar (sort of scary) gleam in his eyes that even the camera has captured. The picture jogs something in Soldier's mind, and suddenly the house doesn’t smell all that weird anymore — it smells clean, like antiseptics and sharp, sterile metal.

“Aw, _SHIT_,” Soldier swears loudly.

It isn’t the most articulate thing to utter, and probably isn’t the smartest either. The old lady gives a startled yelp at the harsh sound of his voice and shoots him.

Soldier also doesn’t have the greatest sense of humor, but he’s laughing anyway — he can’t help it, it’s so damn funny.

“Medic!” he yells jokingly to the portrait, even as blood leaks through his coat and he falls to the floor.

* * *

  
No one is at the cemetery today except Pyro. It’s too cold and there’s a layer of ice and snow making him slide unsteadily in his sneakers. Shivering, Pyro leaves the flowers and says hi to Scout. Happy Thanksgiving. He even has a present tucked under his arm. Pyro leaves it balancing on top of the cross — a can of Bonk; he has one for himself too. Lifting it up in a toast, he takes a slow sip of the impossibly sugary beverage.

“I never did understand how my boy could stand that nasty drink,” says a voice behind him.

Pyro jumps three feet into the air, dropping his can and coloring the snow cherry-red. Scout’s mom picks it up and hands it over to him, looking apologetic. Her apologetic look is nothing compared to the one Pyro’s wearing, though.

“So you’re the guy who’s been leaving the flowers,” she smiles, just like Scout, with the two front teeth and everything.

Pyro mumbles something into his scarf, blushing when it comes out unintelligible. Scout’s mom frowns, but Pyro recognizes it as a thinking-frown, not an upset-frown.

“You must be Pyro,” she suddenly laughs, sounding delighted. To Pyro’s everlasting surprise, she grabs his arm. “He’s told me all about you, in the letters, you know? Oh! Speaking of letters…” She fishes something out of her purse—an envelope—and places it next to Pyro’s flowers on the headstone. “There ya go, sweetie. Just came in the mail today.”

Curious, Pyro cranes his neck to see, but Scout’s mom is already tugging him away.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, all alone on a Thanksgiving,” she says, before gently adding, “Not that he doesn’t appreciate the company.” She glances towards Scout’s grave. “But I don’t think he’d want you to keel over from the cold.”

Unable to help it, Pyro chuckles. They walk out of the cemetery in thoughtful silence. The whole thing really isn't as awkward as Pyro thinks it could have been. When they reach the iron gate, Scout's mom stops him.

“If you're not doing anything tonight, how ‘bout you come over for Thanksgiving dinner?"

Pyro hesitates, remembering what Scout had told him about his family. Eight children. Single parent. Run-down house. Not enough money. The reasons why Scout joined BLU in the first place.

But like her son, Scout's mom is stubborn. "Don't worry! There's plenty of room, we have an empty—” she falters for a moment and Pyro wants nothing more than to give her a reassuring hug, but she finishes with a determined smile, “We have an extra spot at our table. I'm sure the boys would love to meet you.”

Unexpectedly, the ache subsides a little. Pyro doesn't notice until he finds himself smiling back.

"So how about it?"

He nods. Yeah, he'd love to come.

 

* * *

When Scout dies, his contract with BLU is automatically terminated. It makes sense; there's no need to keep updated records on dead employees. They either finish a commission and get paid, or die trying. BLU doesn't want anything to do with them after, and being so wide-spread and deeply connected with the world's industries, replacements are easy to come by.

It says this on the contract. Not in those specific words, but something close to that effect in three pages of tiny typewriter print.

So Scout dies and BLU doesn't care. They send a brief note in a plain white envelope to his immediate family informing them of his contract's termination. This takes half a page of that same tiny typewriter print. The rest makes up two more pages, though it can be summed up with _too late. Unable to help. Signed contract. Why didn't you stop him? Should have thought this through, huh? _

It ends with sincere condolences, and the number for a complaint line.

Scout would have laughed at that.

* * *

When it's raining outside and everyone is feeling miserable after a hard day at the docks, Demoman is there at the pub, always willing to tell stories. It doesn't matter if people want to listen to him; it takes their mind off of their own troubles, or gives them excuses to vent. Sometimes it turns into fights, a bunch of drunken brawling, but tonight everyone is sitting by the bar or fireplace, too cold and wet to start throwing punches.

Demoman usually doesn't like it this way. It gives him too much time to talk.

"What a load of bull," a young man grumbles from his seat after Demoman's finishes up his latest story-telling session. "Teleporters? That's just as believable as you losin' your eye to Nessie."

Demoman wants to pick up the challenge, but the man turns away towards the window. He can just imagine the one ear cocked for more stories, fabricated or not.

"Sounds like this BLU company might be worth the trouble," another man says from across the pub, a fisherman that hasn't been able to work due to the weather, "Hell, from the money you've been dishing out, I'd like to sign up."

And this is exactly why Demoman prefers fighting to talking. Ironically, it launches him into another tale, and he makes sure not to leave any of the gory details.

"--and then I get t'see a boy no longer than you lot get blown to pieces, a month before he was supposed t'be decommissioned," he's saying, "And I knew 'im too."

"Well, it's a risk," argues that same someone Demoman can't put a name on, "I just got t'be more careful than your dead friend."

Demoman glowers at the guy, takes another swig of his whiskey, and manages to jab a finger in his general direction, "Aye, but sometimes it ain't enough to be careful. And it's not just dyin' that's a risk. The people on your team are all mad."

This earns him a round of laughs--"_Haha, mad like you?_" Demoman smiles, but he keeps talking.

"If y'think about it, they're all the lowest of the low. Working for BLU is only for the people who are boot-lickin' desperate enough to do it, and don't mind dying," he says, more to himself than anyone else, but the few people who hear him stop laughing and pay attention. "It can't be just about the money. I've figured it all out -- BLU can get to you in four ways: unhappiness, lack of security, or loneliness." He grins wryly. That last one's his.

One of the listeners frowns. "You only said three. What's the last one?"

Now Demoman laughs, "The last way? Oh, I thought it'd be obvious by now. They trick you into it."

* * *

When Engineer first joins BLU, it's to pay off his massive student loans. Education doesn't come cheap these days, and certainly not eleven doctorates -- but when the company offers to pay his tuition for two years of intern work on the field, Engineer thinks it's the best shot he's got at squaring his debts.

Before that, Engineer also has a girlfriend he's met at the university while working on his last degree. She's a smart cookie when it comes to electronics-- says her father is a technician and works with the stuff. Being a good few years older and more experienced, Engineer starts tutoring her in their common subjects, but when he looks over her notes, he notices that she writes poetry all over her graphs. The next semester, she drops her science major for an English one and a few more years down the road will lead her to get her teaching credentials. They're married by then.

In BLU base, every time Scout mentions his mother and brothers back in Boston, Engineer is reminded of her, thinks maybe they'd like to start a family when he comes back--_if_ he comes back.

Scout scoffs. Of course Engie will go back. All he does is sit next to the intel, nice and safe. And if Engie does kick the bucket, Scout'll take care of his wife, _wink-wink_, so Engie better watch himself.

Engineer would cuff the boy for that, but he promises to look out for Scout's family, too. Scout would grin and say a bunch of awful things about what he'd do to Engie's wife, if only to hide his gratitude and make sure that Engie made it through each day alive.

So now Engineer sends over some money to Boston because he knows BLU doesn't give a shit. Before his decommissioning, he asks Spy to forge some checks from the company, just so Scout's family can think they're getting the payment from BLU. Spy agrees with a startling amount of eagerness, and Engineer suspects that maybe the Frenchman has put in a little of his own money for Scout's family because not shortly after, he receives a heartfelt letter of thanks; they don't need the money any longer.

It's only weeks later that Engineer realizes that there shouldn't have been a way for Scout's mom to have written to him. He lays in bed, next to his wife and sleeping baby, and worries.

* * *

The both of them are too old to keep up arguments. It's not for Heavy to decide if Medic should go back to Germany, no matter how much he disagrees with the idea, and he has learned over the years to trust the doctor, so that's what he does. Medic seems to understand this as well, and shows his appreciation by not bringing the subject up. Or at least that is what Heavy hopes. Otherwise, Medic acts just the same as always, even if he is he checking the post more often, or jumps to attention every time the phone rings.

Heavy also isn't sure why Medic wants to return to Germany, and it bothers him even more that he refuses to ask him outright. The answer, he knows, can't be about how cold Russia is or Medic being angry at him for constantly eating the last bagel at breakfast--the two being the chief things Medic likes to complain about. Heavy is afraid that Medic's reasons would be _right_. So he doesn't ask.

But even as the first week passes by without a letter or call from Spy, Heavy grows anxious. It is evident from Medic's constant hovering that whatever reason he has, it's an important one, and Heavy feels ashamed for not knowing. Now whenever the telephone rings, Heavy turns as well and hopes for Medic's sake that it is Spy.

* * *

  
"It might be Spy," Medic would say, more out of habit than any genuine hope. Of course, when he answers the phone, it's someone from town with another cold or flu or persisting cough. Sometimes, Medic wonders if the town actually remembers what it was like before he came. While he tries to explain to a mother that a congested nose is nothing serious, he notices his bagel is missing from his plate. When he can finally hang up the telephone, Medic glares at the obvious thief.

"You are too old for this," he deadpans, sliding his plate closer to his side of the table so that Heavy can't steal his eggs too.

"Not really, no," Heavy chuckles. He is silent for a moment before adding, "I think you should call Spy. Tell him that I am coming too."

"Oh." Truthfully, Medic isn't all that surprised. He has been thinking about it, but to have Heavy suggest it on his own, well, he can't help but smile gratefully. Picking up the telephone again, he calls the number Spy has given him in the letter. It's a risky line and Spy has never said anything about it leading directly to BLU, but only that it should be safe. Most of the time.

He waits a bit and eventually the line gives a static click and rings. Medic waits for a bit and is greeted by an automated machine.

"Builders League United complaint line, please hold--"

Medic slams the phone on the receiver and exchanges a glance with Heavy.

"I think," he says slowly, "Something is wrong."

* * *

Spy miscalculates. He’s supposed to be back within the hour, but Saxton Hale makes a point to show that BLU ought not swindle him ever again. The man lets Spy off easy—a bruised body, a bloody nose, and a cut lip: light punishment for contract breakers. Of course, Spy shows that BLU is still a worthy business partner by leaving a few of his own marks on Hale. It’s a ridiculous way of doing business, but Spy sees the value in keeping the brute around.

He weaves unsteadily through the walkways, trying to stanch the blood from his nose with a handkerchief. Spy could go home now (the townhouse one), get himself cleaned up, collapse on his bed, and forget today ever happened. It's the logical thing to do.

But instead he finds himself at the café, careful to keep his hopes down.

Unbelievably, Sniper is still there, but he isn’t waiting any longer. He’s having an argument with the owner of the café, and despite the pain of his cut lip, Spy begins to laugh quietly.

* * *

“All I’m sayin’ is that I ordered a bloody cup of coffee an hour and a half ago,” Sniper says, his patience running thin. “Goddammit, est-ce que vous me… me comprenez?”

The café owner throws him an exasperated look, “Oui, but we ‘ave never received your order, monsieur. Why did you not speak up sooner?”

“The damn barista told me to wait for the cake!” Sniper exclaims, flinging his arms up. Normally, he wouldn’t have been so upset, but he’s had enough of France, wants to starts up an argument, make him hate the country so much that he’ll never want to come back. “He didn’t even fucking say what kind of cake—!”

Halting in mid-rant, Sniper hears someone snickering behind him and whirls around. He’s eyes widen and he points accusingly at the barista, who is laughing so hard he has to use a table to steady himself.

“That’s the little wanker who took my order!”

The café owner looks past him, frowning. “But… ‘e is not one of ours. That man does not work ‘ere.”

Now Sniper’s confused, but that gives him another reason to be angry and he takes it. “What do y’mean not one of yours?”

The not-barista straightens up, pausing in his laughter to say something to the shop owner that is too fast for Sniper to catch with his limited French. With a skeptical nod, the owner takes his leave and goes back into the café.

“Now wait a minute—“ Sniper begins, but the not-barista saunters up to him, cool and confident. It pisses Sniper off because even if the not-barista appears calm, he tell the other man is nervous-- the little things like the press of his lips, flickering eyes and the way he stands. Sniper doesn't know how he can tell, he just _knows_, like he can sense it. It's as if he's seen it before and Sniper just loses it.

“Please put that arm down. You look like you are going to ‘it someone.”

“Yeah,” Sniper agrees, and punches the French bastard. Maybe he’ll get arrested and they’ll deport him back home. The thought puts a bitter smile of his face, but he draws his fist back in surprise, warm blood cooling on his knuckles in the winter air. He hadn’t hit the guy that hard, did he? No, the guy is already in bad shape, suit torn and stained in many places.

The not-barista stumbles back, swaying haphazardly. He looks at Sniper with cloudy, gray eyes and his lips twitch up in a rueful smile.

“That is the second Australian who ‘as punched me in the face today,” he says, almost conversationally, “The first one ‘its harder than you, mon cher, but I think yours ‘urts more."

And it all suddenly clicks. Sniper doesn’t know what to say. Maybe later his mind will think of something witty like _‘I knew I punched that face before’_ or _‘who the bloody fuck is this other Australian you’re talking about?’_ He starts to open his mouth but, of course, Spy doesn’t give him a chance to speak.

The Frenchman gives a tiny sigh and pitches forward to the ground in a dead faint.

 


	4. pppps; Additional Attachment Included

Soldier doesn’t believe in fate or destiny. They're unpredictable and unreliable; there's no way to save a bottle of luck for a rainy day or keep a can of misfortune to throw at an enemy. It doesn't work that way, and it's better to keep his hopes down because having them snatched away could be just as painful as a bullet to the chest.

Now: cold reason, tangible facts, and skill-- he finds these things much more reassuring, because he can _see_ their effects.

Like the reason why he's dying now.

Reason one: he should have shot the old German woman. Explanation: he didn’t shoot the old woman was because he was distracted. And reason two, the funny one: he was distracted was because Medic was there, in the form of a portrait and a fog of memories. There. All neatly wrapped into a tiny package of logic.

But what Soldier can't figure out is why he _hasn't_ died yet, why his vision keeps on swimming, seeing the face of the old lady who shot him and then, of all things, the feeling of a dog lapping sloppily at his face. He feels as if he's waking up at random intervals, groggy and not all together, remembering things like another mercenary standing over him and the quick debriefing about... something he can't fully recall. Payment. Decommission. Medic's house on fire. The old lady, stern and unyielding.

Yet through his haze, Soldier can somehow tell she's trying very hard not to cry. She takes him to god-knows-where, and all he knows is that it's somewhere safe. She cleans his bandages, feeds him soup, and makes sure the dog doesn't jump on him. Through it all, Soldier can't come up with an explanation for that.

Soldier doesn't believe in destiny or fate, just sick coincidences. But, despite it all, he begins to hope.

* * *

  
Scout's home is exactly how Pyro would have pictured it, even if Scout had never said anything about the flowery welcome mat and daisy-yellow walls, or the warm cinnamon smell that wafts through the whole house from the kitchen. He is greeted enthusiastically by seven men, a handful of girlfriends or wives (and, at one point, a boyfriend), and at least a dozen young children. Wondering briefly how it was possible to have everyone fit inside the tiny house, Pyro notices an older man in a green argyle sweater who carefully places himself next to Scout's mom, leaning over to anxiously whisper in her ear.

"Well, you wouldn't have to worry if you'd just come with me," Scout's mom says to him, "I don't understand why you refuse to." Even though she sounds hurt, it is the man who flinches slightly. He recovers, however, and glances at Pyro questioningly. Apparently not in the mood to press the issue, Scout's mom laughs, pulling the man over to make introductions.

"This is my-- what do you like to call it--ah, paramour!" She grins, giving a wink before she leaves them to make sure her sons don't set fire to her kitchen.

"'Ello, pleased to meet you," the man says with a friendly smile, and holds out his hand.

Even if it wasn't for the French accent, Pyro would have recognized him by the ugly scar that mars the man's right hand, pale and wide. It's an old burn. Pyro would know -- he gave it to him.

"Do I know you?" RED Spy asks, brow furrowing. "You seem familiar."

Pyro stares at the spy's hand, then at his face. Assessing eyes, imposing posture, immaculate appearance -- Pyro starts backing away, arms twitching to lift an invisible flamethrower, set the man on fire, and run. RED Spy's eyes narrow, amiable demeanor instantly gone, and pulls his hand back. It rests lightly on his hip above his pocket like a silent threat.

"Ah, you already know me," he says.

But before he can even finish speaking, Pyro is out the door.

 

* * *

  
Family has always been a straightforward thing to Scout. He's got enough experience to know that family didn't always mean sharing the same blood. Sharing food, a roof, stories at night, sometimes tears and angry words -- that was enough, without needing blood. They're the people he has to put up with-- people he fights, people who drive him crazy, people he wants to sometimes bash over the head with a bat and scream at.

They're also the people he gets worried sick over when he's yelling into a headset that has suddenly gone silent. They _have_ to watch out for each other, because not a single one of them can do everything at once. That's why they're a team.

It's only ever _really_ occurred to him once that they're a family.

But it's the one time that counts, and Scout makes use of it so that he never has to worry about it again.

* * *

  
Demoman receives letters from Engineer with alarming frequency. It is flattering at first but when the Texan's letters start outnumbering his two to one, he has the feeling that something is wrong, something not explicitly said. He knows Engineer to be a practical man, never rash or excessive, but his newer letters are long and rambling, often talking about the schematics of machines and ideas for their alteration. It's not that they aren't interesting, Demoman is sure that they are, but he can't make heads or tails of what Engineer is saying. He finds it odd that he is being subjected to an engineering rant from Engineer, who usually keeps the nitty-gritty specifics of his occupation down to a minimum. The only time Demoman had been ever been caught in one of Engineer's incomprehensible lectures was when they were both hiding behind a dispenser as the REDs stormed their base, bullets and rockets flying everywhere. It had been a close call and Demoman is sure that they would have died that day if Scout hadn't came running in with backup.

So as far as Demoman can tell, Engineer only rambles when he is nervous, or scared. He wraps himself up in his work to fight down hysterics. It's a fairly good way to deal with fear, just like Demoman's use of alcohol.

In the end, the numbers and equations mean nothing to Demoman, and he skips down to the bottom of Engineer's letters. There, he finds a small postscript that sounds more like Engineer, writing briefly about his wife and son. Just a note, nothing important.

Except that it is. More so than the long passages of physics and engineering.

Demoman walks down a block to use the pub's telephone. The owner lets him, jokingly reminding Demoman that he'd better not get a bill that's _too_ long. After assuring the owner that it won't be _too_ bad, Demoman picks up the phone, cradles it between his shoulder and ear while he stares at the dials. He doesn't call Engineer. He can't anyway, not without a number. The Texan had never given his number to anyone, wanting to distance himself from BLU to better start a family. The rest of the team had tried not to take offense; Engineer comes off as a family-oriented man, so it's understandable. Connections with BLU are dangerous to have, they reassure him, when Engineer stutters and mumbles over his explanation on the train home.

But he'd given Demoman his address, and Scout too, though that doesn't matter now. It isn't something he can't help, Demoman thinks. Engineer wants to stay connected, but he's a practical man, careful to weigh out both the good and the bad side of things. He doesn't do anything without a reason.

Maybe that's why Demoman has his address in the first place: because sometimes Engineer can't do certain things on his own.

Demoman pulls out Spy's letter, pokes at the dials, and waits.

"Builders League United complaint line, please hold."

Demoman snorts. If he didn't know Spy any better, he would have hung up. "Yeah, yeah, you're bloody hilarious. Good god, if BLU has an actual complaint line, I'll eat my hat."

And he grins to hear Spy laughing at the other end.

* * *

  
When the first letter from BLU arrives at his house-- _his_ house, dammit-- Engineer lets it sit on his desk. He doesn't even want to look at it. Baby's upstairs sleeping, his wife's outside with the animals-- he ought to go check on them, just in case.

Engineer finds them all right as rain, and in the next week, another letter from BLU arrives. He reads it, unsurprised to find that they want him back. Oh, they don't say anything directly, but they start mentioning things like moving to the city, letting his boy go to one of _their_ funded schools -- _oh, lord, they know he has a son. _

He's learned his lesson the hard way, so he ignores the letters, doesn't reply, no matter how much and what they offer. Despite his resistance, Engineer begins to fear that they'll stop offering him a job and start threatening him into it. BLU isn't above that, he knows.

When Spy sends him a letter with the company's logo on it, Engineer _almost_ panics. They can't get him this way. He won't let them. Engineer starts tossing the letters away, one by one.

* * *

  
Heavy mostly sits in the kitchen now, just so Medic can leave the room or house without having to worry about the telephone ringing and him not being there. He doesn't mind most of the time. He's used to guarding things. Points. Bases. Intelligence. It's all vaguely familiar, like an imprint in the back of his mind. It reads like a joke, but he doesn't say anything because it probably would not get a laugh from Medic.

He reads a book while he sits at the table, half a sandwich already gone and another in the process of being made. (He can never get over those things.) Most of the words leave his head instantly; he's reading for the sake of occupying his time.

When Medic enters the kitchen, the lines of anxiety on his forehead are deeper set than usual.

"You don't have to stay in here all day," he says with a slight smile that's meant to be reassuring, but Heavy doesn't buy it. Medic would make him stay, if he thought there was a chance. This strikes Heavy as worrying.

"Spy might-" he begins, but Medic waves him off.

"Spy has other priorities, and something may have had happened," Medic says with that carefully blank look, the one Heavy recognizes from the times when he's seen Medic drag a white sheet over a dead body. "You can go to town, I know you wanted to pick up more bread."

It's a flimsy excuse, but Heavy gives Medic a nod and sets the sandwich aside for later. He wants to stay, but he sees no point in hovering.

Besides, the phone rings just then and Medic picks it up with that blank look that disappears into pure shock as a voice screams through the earpiece. He pulls away until the voice dies down and frowns.

"Herr Soldier?"

* * *

  
"AND YOUR FUCKING HOUSEKEEPER SHOT ME," Soldier screams at him through the phone. Medic grimaces, too confused to come up with a proper retort, but then he hears a woman also yelling in the background and a dog barking, and he feels the blood drain from his face.

"That is not my housekeeper, that is my _mother_!" Medic shouts back, suddenly afraid, "What have you done to her? Where are you--"

"--_TWICE_. SHOT ME TWICE. Missed the second time though."

"Mother?" Heavy repeats from the other side of the kitchen, but Medic ignores him, trying to make sense of the situation.

This is _exactly_ why he needed to go back. Germany is not safe for what's left of his family, and his home... Medic has no idea how Soldier got himself involved with everything and he doesn't know if its a good thing or not. Keeping the phone in a white-knuckled grip, Medic attempts to calm himself down. "Where are you? My house?"

Soldier pauses for a split-second, and even though they haven't talked to each other for so long, Medic doesn't like the way Soldier hesitates.

"Your house is gone," he says gruffly, not at all apologetic but almost rueful. "I gave the order."

Medic closes his eyes, gropes around with his free hand for the chair, pulling it close as he sits down. Heavy is silent, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, as if he could listen in.

"You there, Medic?"

Medic bites his tongue to keep from yelling at Soldier. "Let me talk with my mother," he says tightly.

Surprisingly, Soldier obeys, the clunking exchange-- Medic swears he could hear his mother rap Soldier on the head and Elsie bark in the background-- and then that familiar berating German floods his ears and Medic sighs in relief. He lets his mother lecture him, tell him what the hell is going on with Soldier. Medic's gut still twists at the thought of his house, but he glances at Heavy, patient and waiting, and reminds himself that it doesn't really matter in the end, because his mother is still yelling into his ear and Heavy is now finishing up the last of his sandwich.

"And a French man found us and we were able to call you," his mother is telling him in German, "He was very helpful."

Medic straightens, a small, thankful smile working his way onto his face. "French, you say?"

"Yes, you are friends with him? He's quite handsome," his mother says, making Medic lift his eyes heavenward, but she continues in that anxious way that grabs his attention, "But he seems like a very sad man. Very unhappy, for all his smiles."

"Hm. I think he's lost something important to him," Medic says vaguely, not wanting to elaborate, but his mother seems to understand anyway.

"Well then, I hope he finds what he's looking for."

* * *

  
When Spy wakes up in a bed with sheets that smell strongly of bleach and faintly of Sniper, it disorients him with a pleasant wave of memories until he decides to open his eyes.

He recognizes the hotel room setting, the blank unimpressionable walls and dully coordinated décor. The room is dim from a cheap lamp on a table and what the city’s night lights have to offer from the window. He sees Sniper sitting there, head slumped against the drawn curtains and breathing softly. The first thing Spy thinks is that Sniper shouldn’t fall asleep next to an open window. The second thought overrules the first and makes his gut twist: the window is the furthest spot from the bed without having to leave the room.

Making sure the blankets do not rustle loudly, Spy checks his body. His cuts have been cleaned and there’s a strip of gauze around his otherwise bare chest. The bruises are also starting to color, leaving ugly streaks across his arms and legs. Spy can just imagine what his back must look like then, judging from the pain alone, but it's not the first time he's woken up with injuries. Or in Sniper's bed, half-naked.

Even though he is quiet, Sniper stirs from his seat, “Don’t recognize the face, but the rest’s a familiar sight.”

Spy smiles slightly, but doesn't meet Sniper's gaze, pretending to be looking at the clock (though he notices later that there isn't one in the room). He absently runs a hand through his disheveled hair and hisses when he feels a tender bump. He didn’t have _that_ before.

“You fainted and hit the ground after I punched you,” Sniper explains, sounding both amused and apologetic.

“Oh, thank you for catching me then,” Spy says sarcastically, but he is glad that they are still able to joke around.

“Yeah,” Sniper laughs, a nervous sound. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “You look better without the mask.”

"Ah, yes. If you call a cut lip, bleeding nose, and black eye an improvement."

Sniper grins, outside traffic lights tinting his face neon red. It's so easy to fall back and be reminded of where they left off, but here they are now, staring at each other from opposite ends of the room, almost as if they can't quite believe it. Breaking eye-contact to get up from the bed, Spy glances over to find his bloodied and torn suit folded on top of a table. Neatly folded. He smiles a little; so habits do rub off.

“…I ‘ave to go,” Spy says abruptly, ignoring the way Sniper stiffens.

And, sometimes, old habits never die.

* * *

  
Shaking out the pang of disappointment, Sniper lets out a frustrated sigh, but he also stands up and heads over to one of his drawers. He pulls out a wrinkled but clean shirt and a pair of frayed jeans.

“I figured you might say that,” he says, tossing them over to Spy, who snatches them up. He waits for Spy to criticize the cut, the color of the shirt, but the Frenchman puts it on without so much as a sneer. It actually doesn’t look that bad on him; the sleeves are a little too long and Spy doesn’t seem to understand that the top button is _supposed_ to be undone, but by the time he slips on the jeans, it’s like Sniper is looking at an entirely different person.

It scares him a little, so he focuses on Spy’s gray eyes, the quirk at the corner of his mouth, and the sharp contours of his face—features that have been ingrained in Sniper’s mind since long before he left BLU.

“You do too much,” he mutters, following Spy towards the door.

“Oh? Please explain,” Spy challenges lightly, his hand hovering over the door handle. “I ‘ope you know I still work for the company.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Sniper says impatiently, gesturing to the cut on Spy’s lip, not quite touching it. “Don’t think I haven’t been talking with Medic or Demoman. Hell, even Engie is worried.” He tries to speak in a measured voice, but it comes out flat, angry and hurt, “But I never hear from you.”

In the darkness, the color shows badly on Spy’s cheeks, but Sniper is fascinated with it all the same. He allows Spy to open the door, slip out from their close proximity so that he is standing inside the room while the other is out in the main hallway. The uncomfortable silence drags on until Spy shoves his hands into the pockets of his borrowed jeans and leans forward so that his cheek can rest lightly against Sniper’s. No passionate embrace, no kiss, nothing to spark or set fire to any longing they have—just a warm pressure of reassurance.

“I still ‘ave things to finish,” Spy says. “Wait a while longer for me.”

When he draws back, the stray wisps of his hair brush against Sniper’s face, smelling like faded cigarette smoke. It’s a new sensation, very different from the rough fabric of a balaclava, but it's one that Sniper’s more than willing to get used to.

“Okay. I’ll wait.”

It pains him to see Spy look so relieved, even as he turns away to leave. The moment Spy disappears around the corner, Sniper shuts the door.

He doesn’t tell Spy that he’s leaving for Australia in two days.

 


	5. ppppps: Write Back Soon

Soldier feels as if he should know the Frenchman standing before him, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth and smirking as if it was his job. He doesn't mean to make excuses for himself -- he ain't a baby pansy-- but Soldier currently has a hole in his chest and whenever he breathes, he feels his lungs rattle and eyes twitch. So maybe, _just maybe_, it's understandable that his mind is drawing a blank for a name. Not that the Frenchie cares, of course, the other man even appears to be amused by the way Soldier squints suspiciously at him.

"You cannot imagine how valuable that 'ouse is," says the Frenchman. He puts up a convincing front, sounds like he personally wouldn't give two figs about Medic's place, but there's a little worry knit in his brow that puts a crack in his carefully manufactured expression. Soldier bites down on that like a lifeline, whatever gives him an advantage when his body can barely stay upright in a chair.

"I've raided bigger," he scoffs, feeling a light touch on his shoulder. Medic's mother stands behind him, trying to make sure he doesn't bust a gut while dealing with the interrogating snob.

"I wasn't talking about the 'ouse itself," the Frenchman says, "What's _in_ it is more important."

And now it's all gone to ashes. It worries Soldier that his slight flinch may not have been from the pain of his wound, but he knows what the Frenchman is on about. Records. Documents. Evidence. Medic probably had some pretty secretive files stashed away, and Soldier doesn't even want to know what the German has done in the past; whatever it was, it must have been bad enough for him to leave his country.

It goes against everything Soldier has taught himself, but he had ordered the house to be burned, even as he was being dragged out with a bullet in his chest.

At first, it confuses him, but he's had a lot of time to think on it while bedridden, and it simply boils down to seeing a teammate in danger, and wanting to protect him. And apparently Soldier had felt the need to protect Medic, even after all this time.

Now Soldier isn't all that great at lying, but he manages to look at that French son-of-a-bitch square in the eye without blinking. "Wasn't anything important in there."

"Then there would have been no need to have destroyed the 'ouse," the Frenchman says sharply, but Soldier is bemused by the way the man's expression seems to have relaxed fractionally.

"Who the hell are you?" Soldier asks, half-rising out of his chair, wobbly legs be damned. Medic's mother says something in German, which the Frenchman answers with more gentleness than Soldier would have given him credit for.

"I'm a representative of BLU, though admittedly incognito for the moment, but what else is new?" the Frenchman says to him, gentleness gone and gives another smirk that throws Soldier off for a moment.

He stares. Goddamn, anymore sick coincidences and he'll end up believing in that hippie karma crap before the month is over. Oh, Soldier's angry, he really is. But at the same time, he's a little... _happy_. Familiar faces could do that to a lonely person.

"_YOU_."

" 'Ow specific."

"Never thought I'd see your sorry face again, Spy," Soldier sneers, trying to push back the fact that said face was normally masked, "And still with BLU? I should have known better than to think that you would have some class."

A pause.

"It's not like that," Spy says, with a little less restraint than what Soldier remembers him having. Like he wants to explain himself, which isn't a spy-like thing at all.

"Then why the hell are you here?" Soldier asks. His tone is harsh enough that Medic's mother squeezes his shoulder, reminding him to not bleed all over the place.

"Doing a friend a favor, but it looks like you already did 'alf the job for me," Spy chuckles dryly. His gaze flickers from Medic's mother and Soldier as if he's calculating something. What's odd is that he looks thoughtful and tired, not at all energetic and devious like he normally is. "How's your wound?"

Soldier doesn't answer for a moment. Spies were always sneaky bastards, though he he'd been starting to actually like the guy by the end of their BLU commissions. Yet that had been ages ago and seeing Spy still _with_ BLU now, well, it didn't make a lick of sense to Soldier, not after all they'd been through with that god-forsaken company. Shifting in his seat, he idly rubs the spot above the injury, wincing. No, it didn't make sense at all, unless...

"Hurting pretty badly," Soldier admits stiffly. "You spies were always sneaky sonsofbitches."

Spy takes it like a compliment. "True. Well, intentional or not, I think I owe you a favor."

Soldier knows spies never owed favors. But he thinks he can trust this one, though that doesn't stop him from saying out of habit, "Bullshit."

Spy smiles, putting up his hands in a mock surrender, "Oh, trust me. We'll be 'elping each other out, like old times."

"What are you going to do?" Soldier asks. No, he's _not_ nervous, just rightfully suspicious.

And Spy just grins and grins, like he's planned this whole thing, as impossible as it is.

"Mon ami, I'll be sending you to a very good doctor."

* * *

If Pyro weren't running for his life, he would have found it ironic that RED Spy was chasing him instead of the other way around. He makes it past two houses before the spy grabs a hold of his coat, yanks him back, and they both tumble to the icy ground. Something clatters from RED Spy's pocket, silver and tiny, and Pyro nabs it out of pure reflex. He has no weapons to defend himself with, but maybe--

A lighter. Pyro glares at it. Clearly someone upstairs had a twisted sense of humor.

RED Spy groans, rolling into a crouch while Pyro scrambles to his feet, gripping the lighter tightly.

"Who are you?" RED Spy demands, and it almost insults Pyro that he doesn't recognize him, gasmask or not.

And isn't that just funny? Pyro thinks so. Almost hysterically, he laughs, flicks the lighter on and waves the tiny flame under RED Spy's nose, because there's _no way_ the spy can't remember that crazed look of Pyro's wild eyes, dimly seen through dark, glassy lens.

That does the trick. RED Spy jerks back like he's been physically hit, slaps the lighter away from his bloodless face and sends it skittering over the ice. Pyro thinks it might be something like a nightmare and having it come to life. He laughs again. It's pretty demented, not feeling guilty about it, but so is having the gall to date the mother of a boy you tried to kill during a war.

As if on cue, Scout's mom comes running outside. "What the hell's going on? Is everything all right?" she calls out, nervously griping the wire fence that surrounds her front yard. Through it, Pyro notices that she's wearing slippers.

RED Spy quickly stands up, mud and dirty ice streaking one side of his sweater, but he smiles wide enough for her to see. "We're fine, ma bien-aimée. Just going out for a walk."

Scout's mom isn't stupid; it shows in her frown and Pyro can practically see her arched eyebrow from where he stands. "I want the both of you back in ten minutes," she says with the experience of raising eight rowdy boys. "The turkey will be ready by then."

"Of course," RED Spy says. Unable to do anything else, Pyro also nods.

They watch her return to the house, door shutting gently and cutting off the sounds of shouting and laughter. RED Spy glances at Pyro, apparently at a lost at what to do, but he sounds brutally honest when he says, "I'm not here to hurt her. Or them."

Pyro abruptly remembers the way RED Spy had leaned over Scout's mom, and how she happily pulled him over to Pyro. He sees that as being painfully genuine, but Pyro knows that he can't possibly be in the same room as RED Spy without wanting to gut the man, especially when there are unanswered questions gnawing at his mind, but those can wait. He starts walking away. It's all too much, too soon.

Unbelievably, RED Spy follows him, but one of the few good things about Boston are the cabs; they're everywhere, even on a holiday. Pyro heads down a full block before he can flag one down and hop in. RED Spy joins him, sitting as far away as he can in the backseat.

"Where are we going?" he asks, trying to play it nonchalant, but he shivers in his damp clothes.

And Pyro doesn't tell him. He tells the cab driver instead, taking perverse pleasure in seeing the RED shrink back slightly. It takes about five minutes to get to the cemetery. Pyro pays the driver, shutting the car door and looking grimly at RED Spy through the window, as if daring the man to come with him. Visit Scout.

Though he hesitates for a minute, RED Spy's jaw sets stubbornly and he also gets out of the cab. His breath comes out in wisps and puffs like he's smoking a cigarette, but he has nothing to warm himself now.

They walk to Scout's grave. RED Spy lags behind, but Pyro has no doubt that the Frenchman will follow him; it's a gut feeling. When they get there, the spy stares curiously at the single letter Scout's mom left, then at the bright red stain in the snow from when Pyro had spilled the drink earlier. He swallows, looks away for a moment before padding softly over and squatting down to cover the morbid mark.

The bitter part of Pyro hopes the spy's fingers get frozen off.

"I didn't know he was a BLU," RED Spy starts to explain, not looking anywhere else but the sad lump of snow in front of him, "Didn't see him at all until the second week of fighting. And when I found out, it was too late. I couldn't leave RED, just as Scout couldn't leave BLU. Stupid war. I did a little research on it after. Did you know it all started between two brothers? Imagine that."

No, Pyro didn't know, but he doesn't care. It's too late for that. RED Spy seems to sense it from the cold silence. He shivers again, voice dropping into a mumble as he cups his hands around the snow.

"I tried to protect him, I really did. Remember that time when Scout broke his ankle? Came back to your base with a splint? The boy didn't know a thing about first-aid back then," he continues, more to himself than Pyro. "Well, I guess it didn't matter in the end." He shrugs, that practical mercenary's outlook not quite overshadowing the way he sniffs into his sleeve.

"If I had been there when Scout was... It might have been different, you know? It _should_ have been different--" And the spy keeps on talking, like he wants to get something off his chest. He babbles on and on about Scout, things he should have and could have done, berating himself, fingers curling over the hard-packed snow so that the neon red stain bleeds into his hands. When he's through, RED Spy's head drops a little lower.

Sad. Pathetic. Disgusting.

Pyro wants to think these things, but all he sees is a miserable man trying to shoulder all the guilt he can. And even though it twists his stomach and makes him sick, Pyro slips off his coat and drapes it over RED Spy. No reason to be unnecessarily cold.

He is given a surprised look, the kind where pity is felt but not sympathy, because sympathy would be _understanding_. Forgiveness. Pyro can't manage that right now, but this is a start.

RED Spy finishes his thought very quietly: "And I suppose we can't be bitter men forever."

Pyro may have smiled, may have seen something in RED Spy that Scout's family sees, and while he doesn’t offer his hand, he lets RED Spy stand up on his own and wrap himself in Pyro’s coat. Pyro hitches his scarf higher over his mouth, but that doesn’t make his voice any less clear. After all, Scout's mom is waiting for them.

"Let's go home."

* * *

The flowers -- like useless apologies and regrets and guilt -- stop appearing on Scout’s grave, but it doesn't mean he stops getting visitors from time to time, or cans of Atomic Punch and letters.

* * *

Demoman doesn't notice that he receives less and less letters as the weeks roll by. Life keeps him busy now -- the pub always needs a few good stories -- and it distracts him from missing the BLU boys too much. They seem to be fine at any rate, judging from the postcard from Sniper, the family picture Engineer sends at Christmas, and Heavy's cheery, booming voice over the phone. He almost forgets about Pyro, how many letters he's sent and never got a reply from.

When the postman comes one afternoon, he knocks on the door gently because he knows Demoman has hangovers at this time -- hangovers, Demoman can't really believe it himself, _actual_ hangovers. It takes a while, but eventually he pokes his head out the door, single eye squinting under the glare of the sun.

"I was hoping I'd still be drunk," he sighs, shading himself with a hand, "What do you have for me?"

The postman grins, which is thankfully much quieter than a laugh. "Letter."

"I bloody knew it," Demoman says grumpily, and then the postman laughs, sending threads of pain through his head. It's sort of worth it, though. He takes his mail and the postman leaves with a smile.

Demoman sets the letter on his small kitchen table, opening the nearly empty cupboards for some instant tea or whatever drink that can clear his head. In the end he settles for a glass of water, gulping it down like shots of liquor. His vision starts to get a little less fuzzy around the edges, so he glances down at the letter, carefully placing his glass on the table.

Pyro. Using Scout's address and three smiley flower stamps.

"Now this will be an interesting story," Demoman laughs in relief, and tears open the envelope.

* * *

The telephone rings while Engineer is having dinner. He excuses himself, making sure to tickle his son's nose before he exits the room.

"'Lo?" he answers, only to have his eardrums nearly blasted from his head by a slurred voice with a heavy French accent.

"I _told_ you to _never_ call this number!" Spy shrieks at him.

Engineer nearly hangs up, he doesn't want anything to do with the man so deeply connected with BLU. Especially now that he has a family. It's dangerous. And besides, they weren't the best of friends, even during the war. Clashing personalities, lifestyles... preferences. They just never clicked.

But Spy is drunk, he can hear the clinking of glass bottles on the other end of the line and it worries him. So they weren't exactly friends, but they were on the same team, been through a lot together, and that's enough reason for Engineer.

"Spy? Is that you? Where are--"

" 'Ow many times do I have to say it? Never call me!"

Engineer patiently counts three beats and calmly explains, "Spy, I don't even have your telephone number. _You're_ the one who called _me_."

"Oh."

And the line clicks.

Engineer puts back the phone, puzzled and anxious. He's about to go back to the dinner table, but the phone rings again and he picks it up.

"BLU was looking for you," Spy continues, significantly more composed. His words are still tied clumsily together, but his tone manages to be serious. A shiver runs up Engineer's spine. He quickly walks into the hallway for some privacy, stretching the cord as far as it will go.

"Where are you calling from?" he hisses, unused to Spy being so careless; the line could be tapped.

"Does it matter? Germany. Or is it France?" Spy titters. "Ah, but if I know you, mon ami, your telephone is already safe-guarded. I hear your wife is a wonder with electronics, am I right?"

Engineer doesn't deny or confirm, but the whole thing is still unsettling. Spy shouldn't know _anything_ about his wife.

"Your file is gone," the Frenchman adds, sounding as if he's mumbling into a glass, "Whatever they 'ave on you, I got rid of it. As promised."

Engineer doesn't remember making any promises, but he knows that Spy likes to make up stories to give feeble excuses to do the things he does. For good or for worse.

"Thanks," Engineer says quietly.

"Do not flatter yourself," Spy huffs, "I did the same for everyone."

And more for himself than anything else, Engineer thinks wryly. For some reason, he isn't all that surprised. It is the only explanation he could think of-- why else would Spy stay with the company he grew to loathe so much? Especially when he could have gone to Australia with Sniper, and even more so after finding out about Scout. Neither of them say anything for a while until there's the sound of glass breaking and Spy mumbling drunken curses in French.  
"Right. Any reason why you're drinking like a fish?"  
Spy seems to have been waiting for Engineer to ask and answers very unhelpfully, "I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know where ‘e is."

Engineer can practically smell the alcohol from his side. He adjusts his grip on the phone and tries to be patient. "You gotta give me more than that, spook."

The sound of clinking glass returns. "Mon coeur is gone," Spy says, almost in a singsong way, "‘e didn’t wait for me."

Now Engineer has a pretty good guess who Spy is talking about. He doesn’t feel comfortable discussing it, but he owes the man so he tries to muster up some words of comfort though he has no clue what, exactly, is going on. “I’m sure it’ll be fine between you two,” he says.  
And he knows he probably guessed right from the way Spy snaps, "Don't call me ever, _ever_, ever call me again," and hangs up.

Sighing, Engineer replaces the phone, waits for ten seconds, and picks up on the first ring.

"Dammit, Spy, how did you even get my number?"  
"I'm a spy. I found it.”

"Good Lord, is that so? Then I suppose you can find Sniper too," Engineer says tartly and cuts the line the moment he hears a faint, sheepish, "_oui_".

Finally able to return back to dinner, Engineer slumps into his chair, idly tapping his fork against the plate. _Clink-clink-clink_. It grabs his son's attention and the baby gives a bubbling giggle. Smiling, his wife shifts the baby to fit more snugly against her breast.

"Now who was that on the phone?" she asks curiously.

It's a good question. Engineer gives a practical answer.

"A friend."

  


* * *

The snow outside would come up to Heavy's knees, if he hadn't taken the time earlier to clear the pathway with a shovel. Now he's sweeping the floor in the hallway while Medic mans the kitchen, armed with a whisk and ladle. It's fairly ridiculous the way the German would randomly hurry into the living room, run his finger over the the lampshade and glare at the collection of dust at his fingertip.

"Heavy, it is still dirty!"

And Heavy will try to sigh as quietly as he can, walk into the room with a feathered duster and clean the offending spot under Medic's watchful eye. Unless, of course, Heavy smells something burning in the kitchen and he gently reminds the doctor to check on the stew. Which Medic does. Frantically.

Fortunately, the meticulous cleaning doesn't bother Heavy at all. They don't get many visitors often and he finds himself checking the window more than what's strictly necessary. Pretty soon, an hour goes by before Medic admits the house looks decent enough and, of all things, a barking dog announces the arrival of their guests. Medic and Heavy both walk to the door, though it's Heavy's girth that gives him the victory of opening the door.

"Soldier!" he booms, gripping forearms with the American, "Already in Russia, little man, how is it? What do you think?"

"Hmph. Cold as balls," Soldier says gruffly, but his hold on Heavy's arm is firm and the corner of his lip is twitching up into a half-smile. "Now where's the doc, still hiding behind you?"

Medic squeezes his way through the doorframe, a scowl on his face until Soldier claps him on the shoulder. "Good to see you, Soldier. How was your flight?"

"Pretty standard, but those Tupolevs are really something, I'll give Russia that," Soldier replies. He steps to the side, revealing a tiny old woman holding the straining collar of a handsome, russet malinois. "But look who I brought. Been spending some time with your mom, doc. And your bitch."

Medic can't even throw Soldier his usual death glare. He smiles as he hugs his mother, pulling her into the house and exchanging a ceaseless flow of German with her. The dog follows them inside and nips at their heels, tail wagging. Heavy hears Medic laugh behind him and the name _Elsie, Elsie, Elsie_ over the ecstatic barking.

"Huh. Now I know why he would not let me have a dog," Heavy says to Soldier, ushering him in. He leads the American into the living room while Medic and his mother talk in the kitchen.

Soldier immediately stands near the fireplace, trying to not look too obvious when he takes off his gloves and rubs his hands together. Heavy pretends not to notice and sits on the couch, a little worried with the way Soldier holds the left side of his chest. A minute of silence passes by before Soldier idly runs his hand over the bare mantelpiece. Heavy is reminded of the cleaning inspections back in BLU and wonders if Medic was right to be so strict about dusting.

"That's funny," Soldier mutters.

"Medic cleaned that," Heavy says innocently.

"Really now? Then tell him he's done a heck of a job," Soldier says, "But that's not what I meant."

Heavy is no stranger to awkward silences. This would be one of them. Soldier is looking intently at the wall, not even facing him.

"What did you mean then?" Heavy asks politely.

And Solider turns, very seriously towards him and says, "I just figured you'd hang Sasha over the fireplace. Would make a heck of a display, you know."

"Ah." Heavy stays completely still for a moment before throwing his arms up in the air, "THAT IS WHAT I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO TELL MEDIC!"

Soldier looks aghast before clicking his jaw shut and he starts shouting along with him. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU. RUSSIA IS TEN TIMES THE SIZE OF GERMANY. THAT GERMAN HAS NO RIGHT TO TELL YOU WHAT YOU CAN AND CANNOT HANG ABOVE YOUR FIREPLACE."

And Heavy's house will never be silent again.

* * *

"Oh god, what is going on in there?" Medic groans after his mother has finished criticizing the stew. He pets Elsie for the hundredth time and cautiously leads his mother into the living room, where Soldier is helping Heavy literally nail Sasha to the wall. They stare at the two noisy men.

And Medic, for the life of him, cannot stop grinning.

"I have no idea," his mother says, catching sight of his expression, "but it's home."

* * *

Spy has decided a long time ago that he isn't suited for his line of work anymore, no matter how much it clings to him like a second skin. The memories, the skills, the years of experience -- they're all deeply ingrained into his life. It's impossible to get rid of everything.

So, like any good spy, he puts it to good use.

* * *

Sniper sits in a plane that was scheduled to take off half an hour ago. Looking out the round window, he entertains himself by counting the lines on the runway, not minding the wait. He just hits one after the hundred mark when the lights in the plane suddenly flickers. It wouldn't have worried Sniper much, but he feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The other passengers around him gasp and he knows that the electric shock or the tiny sparks of blue wasn't just his imagination.

It only lasts for a second before the lights start acting normal again. Sniper already has his head in his hands, just _knowing_.

"He _didn't_," Sniper groans.

Another five minutes go by before the flight attendants begin to herd everyone off the plane. Sniper takes his time getting through the aisle, looking all around him for that telltale warp in the air. As he gets closer to the exit, a pilot slips out from the cockpit, a cigarette between his lips. A _No Smoking_ sign blinks above him.

"Think you've done enough damage without setting fire to the plane?" Sniper murmurs when the pilot walks over and stands a little too close.

"Not at all," the pilot says with a familiar smirk, "Sorry for the inconvenience, but it looks like you'll be stuck in France for a little while longer."

Sniper plucks the cigarette from the pilot's mouth because there's no way in hell he's going to let Spy ruin it all by playing it cool.

"It could have been worse," he says, grinning, and steps off the plane.

And Sniper can finally agree that France isn’t so bad after all.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Everyone; From Scout

Slugging it through grace was awkward enough, but when no one wants to say what they're _thankful_ for, Scout's fists clench underneath the table. He can see it in everyone’s eyes, they want to say something, get it off their chest, but none of them wants to admit it, not even Engineer and _he_ was the one who suggested it. Talking about feelings and shit, it’s pretty girly, but Scout decides to take one for the team. He stands up with a clatter of plates and forks, and almost lands his hand in a bowl of gravy.

“Alright, since the rest of y'all are pussies, listen up," Scout begins, feeling a little embarrassed, but Scout has never been shy so he goes on speaking, "I got seven brothers at home, and there’s eight of you guys. And maybe Medic’s kind of like a real ugly version of my ma that can’t cook, so that makes eight. I know we fight a lot and piss each other off, but that’s what my family does to me too.”

Silence. He grins a little, almost hesitantly. But fuck it, even if they know what's coming, Scout isn’t going to leave them hanging.

“So what I’m trying to say is… I guess it’s sort of like—“ Scout’s voice suddenly cracks- _goddamn it_\- and he clears his throat in a hurry, “—you guys remind me of home. Sure, we fight and all, but we're always lookin' out for each other. And I’m thankful for that.”

The rest of the team stares at him, like he’s grown two heads or something. (Except for Medic, who looks ready to throw a fork at him.)

Under the weight of everyone's gaze, Scout’s shoulders hunch up. It’s their first Thanksgiving together and, for some, their first Thanksgiving _ever_. In a sudden fit of patriotism, Soldier had wanted everyone to celebrate the American holiday, corporate schedule be damned. It’s such a rare moment for Soldier to cut back that the whole team had quickly agreed to put aside the fighting for that one night to prepare dinner together.

Dinner, however, is nowhere near the traditional Thanksgiving meal, but it all turns out right in the end; Sniper's persistence on his hunt brings back more than enough meat, Demoman turns out to be an awesome cook (even if he tries sneaking alcohol into every dish), Heavy makes the best mashed potatoes, and the rest of the team throws in a bit of their own recipes, resulting in an odd mix of, well, _everything_.

“Yeah, so you numbnuts are like my asshole brothers,” Scout finishes with a sneer, trying to dissipate the mushy atmosphere he had created. He sits back down, grumbling and waiting to be laughed at.

It doesn’t happen. Pyro gives him a crushing hug instead and doesn’t let go until Scout shrugs him off, pulling the brim of his cap.

“Nicely said,” Spy murmurs with a faint uplifting of his mouth. Somehow, his voice carries from across the table, grabbing everyone’s attention. The Frenchman removes his hand from Sniper’s arm to lift his glass. The rest of the team follows in suit, each one of them grinning goofily from the alcohol.

Yeah. The alcohol. Scout refuses to believe it’s from his sappy lame confession.

“Right, right,” he says after the toast is made, “Now who’s next? What are all you chumps thankful for?”

It doesn't surprise him when no one goes. There’s no need, now that he's said everything for them. Scout lets them off the hook. They're family, after all.

  
\---  
**ps; The End.**  
\---


End file.
